


Entrechat

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 08:53:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4473083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the following prompt for the <a href="http://martins-angry-bisexual-army.tumblr.com/">Sherlockian Bi Fanworks Challenge</a>:</p>
<p>Soldier!teen!John just getting off a particularly tough tour in Afghanistan, and having a drink with his buddies and they’re like “let’s go see the ballet, you know girls in tights!!” *drunken smirks and winks* and John being “oh, ookay…” And John being so not into the story of the nutcracker and then ballet!lock comes on and John is suddenly up and attentive “how in the hell can he do that?! And his legs are damn fine in those tights” *John what boner watson* And then John going to meet sherlock after the show and sherlock’s covered in a light sweat and his curls have loosened from the hairspray and he’s got a towel hung over his shoulder and a duffle bag. And immediately deducts everything of John. And at some point Sherlock coyly tugs at john’s dog tags and then they make out of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entrechat

John stared through the bottoms of two shot glasses, watching the world warp in front of him. He blinked behind them several times before putting them down on the table.

“That was not”--he burped--”a good idea.”

“I coulda told you that, mate,” Murray laughed. “Why’d you even do it in the first place?”

John shrugged. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Murray clapped a hand over John’s shoulder and shook it. “Phase one has fried your brain.”

John giggled. “If not, the alcohol ought to do the job.”

A spray of saliva hit John’s neck as a laugh forced its way out of Murray’s mouth.

“Oi, watch it! If I wanted Murray spit on me, I’d snog your sister.”

“I ought to lick your face for that.”

John chuckled as he picked up his beer. “I’d like to see you tr--”

“Watson,” shouted a voice behind John, making him flinch and spill beer over his hand. “Murray.”

“For fuck’s sake, Porky. We’re right here,” Murray shouted back.

Porky didn’t seem to take notice of Murray’s words, sidling up to the pub table and balancing himself on his elbow. “Pike’s gone out front for a smoke. I think.” His brow furrowed for a moment before he slammed a hand on the table. “We should get out of here. This place is dead.”

John gulped down his beer as he slid from his stool, the ground lurching underneath him. He stopped, set down his glass, and blinked until he figured out which way was up.

“Can you walk?” Murray laughed.

“Oh, stuff it.” John scowled as he threw his coat over his shoulders. Grabbing Murray’s shoulder, John spun him towards the door and pushed him forward.

Once out the door, they all looked up and down the street a few times until Pike reappeared from around the corner of the building.

“What are you lot doing, watching a tennis match?”

“Is there anything in walking distance?” Murray asked.

Pike shrugged, taking a drag from his cigarette before dropping it and grinding it out with the heel of his boot. “We’re soldiers. We can walk anywhere. Want to walk to bloody France?”

“Let’s just go,” Porky interjected. “It’s fucking freezing.”

They walked in a somewhat straight line down the pavement until Pike stopped short.

“Oi,” Porky yelled from the rear. “What’s the hold up?”

“Check out those legs,” Pike said, his face illuminated by the backlighting of a poster frame. On the sign was a young woman with one of her legs twisted high above her, her face in profile.

John whistled. She did have a beautiful body. She looked like she was just Pike’s type--someone who could kick him in the face.

Pike hurried on to the next poster and the next, marveling aloud at the bodies of the women on them, at what they could do with them, on what he imagined they could do with them off the stage. John and the rest of them followed at their own paces. John kept towards the back, glancing at each poster as he strolled past. Each one of them sported a similar theme--a dancer in some pose or another, her name somewhere along her upper body, and “English National Ballet” in large letters below them.

He passed three or four of them before one made him pause. A man with a mess of curly hair was frozen in a leap, his black-clad knees wide and his bare feet pulled up under him, almost touching his bum. His arms were held out from his bare torso, one slightly in front and the other towards the back, and John could see every muscle. Every single one, from sinewy forearms to ridged abdominals, from powerful thighs to the tips of his toes. He was a God-damned piece of art.

John tore his gaze away and trotted to catch up before the group noticed he had fallen behind. Coming up to the marquee, he saw a crowd of people standing just outside the doors huddled in their coats, a cloud of cigarette smoke hovering around them.

Pike stopped again before they made it to the crowd. As he turned around, he whispered, “Let’s sneak in with the smokers.”

John scoffed. “Yeah, we’re really dressed for the ballet.”

“Nobody’s paying attention.”

A general sense of reluctance murmured through the group.

Pike scoffed. “You lot are as useful as a cock-flavored lollipop. I’m going.”

Porky followed obediently behind, leaving John and Murray outside the crowd. After a moment, they shrugged at each other and joined their friends, milling and jostling among the smokers. None of them paid their new members any mind.

They stood in the crush of humanity for a few minutes before the lights inside dimmed and brightened. John couldn’t believe he was actually sneaking into a ballet. This seemed the sort of thing that army mates should be sneaking out of. He didn’t even know what was playing, though there were only so many options for the day after Christmas.

They hunkered down in some open seats near the back corner of the orchestra section just after the lights came down. A glowing blue fog dominated the stage, overflowing into the orchestra pit as the music started. As a chorus of ballerinas fluttered at the back of the stage, a boat rolled onto the scene holding a young woman and the man from the poster. He wore a stiff red and gold jacket with cream-colored tights and black--well, they couldn’t really be boots, but some kind of--shoes. Even in the silly get-up, he was no less fetching than he was in simply tight black ballet tights. Trousers? They didn’t cover his feet. And John didn’t know why, but the dancer’s feet were fascinating. Almost as much as the rest of him.

The dancer’s mouth was open in a wide, toothy smile that somehow seemed incongruous, the carefully neutral expression of the poster much more fitting. He pointed and gestured to the imaginary scenery as the boat meandered about the stage, exaggerated movements played to the back of the balcony, and John chuckled.

The head of the person in front of him cocked to the side, and John sank down in his chair, trying to stifle a sudden fit of giggles. Even Porky punched his knee, whispering for him to, “Shut the fuck up.”

John settled down enough to watch the festivities, his eyes drooping at girls in stiff tutus fluttering around the stage, at one of the stiff-tutued women in a crown dancing with a man in a costume of the same color.

As the dancer from the poster reappeared, stepping gracefully from the boat, John perked up. The dancer took on a different air, standing tall and proud--much more fitting. He bowed to the woman in the crown and the man with her, and then he came to center stage.

The dance started off simply enough, like he was telling a story to children, all large sweeping motions and funny faces. But then--oh, God, but then--his whole demeanor changed. He drew himself up, his posture and his expression a challenge to the audience. He twirled and leapt across the stage, reaching heights John didn’t even know were possible.

God, he wished he was closer. It was all he could do to keep from sitting at the edge of his seat. He pushed himself back instead, a rush of adrenaline reminding him of the men on either side of him. He glanced from the corner of his eyes. Murray was watching politely, obviously at a loss about why they were here in the first place. Porky snored quietly on the other side. Even Pike was starting to look bored.

Pike tapped John with his knuckle. “Hey. Hey Watson.”

John tore his eyes from the stage enough to glance at Pike. “What?”

“Let’s get out of here.”

“This was your idea.”

“I didn’t know there would be so many poofters.”

John’s entire body clenched, but he fought to keep it from his face. “You go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”

Pike shook Porky, who snorted and wiped drool from his lip. “Suit yourself. We’ll find someplace close. You coming, Murray?”

Murray perked up. “Yeah.” He pushed himself up on John’s knee. “Laters.”

John sat through the rest of the ballet on his own, eyes rarely leaving his favorite dancer even though he spent most of the rest of the show sitting still. But God, he cut a fine figure in the chair.

***

An hour later, after some searching, John found himself waiting at the stage door. His heart raced so much that he shivered, or it was so cold that it made John’s heart race. He was still too drunk to tell. Or maybe too punch drunk. Only a man in such a state could possibly think it was a good idea to wait outside a stage door for a strange man only a week before he started his Phase 2 training.

John paced the courtyard, resolving to leave and stay several times over. Finally, he heard the tinkling of female laughter behind him, turning to find a cavalcade of petite women in oversized sweaters, flannels, and fuzzy boots. A curly head of hair loomed above them, and John was sure he didn’t have a chance. How was he supposed to separate the dancer from the rest of them?

But fate was on his side. As soon as they cleared the building, the dancer broke off from the group, settling against the wall a few yards from the door. He planted his feet and leaned back so that his shoulders were the only part of him touching the wall, his hips jutting forward to reveal a slice of flat stomach and the crest of hipbones over his ripped jeans. He reached into his coat pocket, pushing one side of it farther open, and John could swear that even from a distance, he could see the shape of a peaked nipple through the dancer’s shirt. John licked his lips and walked towards the dancer, zipping his coat to his neck as he went.

The dancer met John’s eyes after only a few steps, and he watched John walk, sliding a cigarette between his lips and fishing a lighter from the pack as he stared. His gaze raked down to John’s toes and back up again, his eyes narrowing as he lifted the lighter to his face, cupping a hand around it as the flame leapt to life. He didn’t even bother to glance down at the flame before he snapped the lighter shut, a round ember taking its place. With the lighter still in his hand, the dancer pulled the cigarette from his mouth and blew smoke in John’s direction.

“Could I bum one?” John offered, sidling up to the dancer, one shoulder propped against the--fucking freezing--wall.

The dancer held out the open pack, watching John from the corner of his eyes. John fished one out and propped it between his lips before patting his pockets. But before he could make sufficient show of looking for a lighter, a flame appeared mere centimeters from his face, making him flinch. John grabbed his cigarette between two fingers and held the tip in the flame, his fingers curling over the back of the dancer’s hand to steady it.

“Cheers,” John said.

The dancer flipped the lighter shut and dropped it back into the pack. “Don’t mention it.”

“I’m John,” John said, offering a hand.

The dancer glanced down at it as he took a drag. “Sherlock.”

John cleared his throat before taking a drag of his own, staring out into the courtyard. “I caught the show tonight.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock replied. And God, his voice was liquid silk, warming John to his toes. “Anything in particular catch your eye?”

John smiled, taking a small step towards Sherlock. “Perhaps.”

Sherlock hummed. “Interesting.”

“Interested?” John dragged his tongue across his lower lip.

“Perhaps.”

“Shall we go someplace warmer, then?”

“Let’s.” Sherlock dropped his cigarette on the ground and put it out with the toe of his Chuck Taylor’s.

“Do you know of any g--”

“Your place or mine?” Sherlock interrupted. “Oh, what am I thinking? Mine, of course.”

A question took shape on John’s lips before it could fully form. “What are you talking about?”

“Sex.” Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Aren’t you?”

“Well, yes, but don’t you want to get a drink or something first? We don’t know a thing about each other.”

Sherlock smirked, turning his body towards John. “I know you’re a soldier, and you’re currently on leave. Between phases of training, I’d say, to become a combat medic. Iraq or Bosnia? Have you found out yet? You’re here visiting family, but you’re not very close to them. Perhaps because you’ve disappointed them because you went into the army instead of going to university. Perhaps because the question of your sexuality makes it tense around the house, especially when you’re cooped up for the holidays. So, you’ve gone out for drinks with your newfound army buddies, had far too much to drink, and ended up here, probably because of the provocative nature of the posters out front. They got bored and left, but you stayed behind because you had a boner for one of the dancers. And now you’re looking to take me home, but of course your family is there, so it has to be my place. My brother is there, but he won’t bother us. Besides, I’d quite like to piss him off.”

Somehow during the course of that speech, Sherlock circled to stand in front of John. Sherlock braced himself on both of his hands, on either side of John’s shoulders, and loomed over him. John gaped.

The smirk returned. “Am I close?”

“Oh fuck, yes.” John surged forward, crushing his lips over Sherlock’s smile, grabbing the lapels of his coat and yanking him closer. Their legs knocked against each other, and John stepped back until his heels met the wall. The heart that had finally recovered from the nervousness raced with a brand new surge of adrenaline.

Sherlock smelled of the sweat of exertion, salty and musky and all man, and John growled at it. At the sensations of soft lips on his and velvet tongues warring with the nip and scrape of teeth. At the warmth against his front warring with the cold at his back. The pleasure and pain of rough kisses.

John’s hands flew to Sherlock’s curls, silky and damp beneath his fingers, as Sherlock’s hands clenched around the thick fabric of John’s coat. They gasped with each parting of their lips before diving back in again, John’s fingers tightening in Sherlock’s hair, tugging at it and eliciting the most wonderful sounds from Sherlock.

Sherlock pressed tight against him, and John had to stand on his tiptoes, desperate to keep their bodies as close together as he could. He couldn’t stop or slow down, carried off on a runaway train, building speed with every second. His lungs screamed for oxygen, and his calves screamed for relief, but he denied them. He was too consumed with Sherlock’s lips, his body, his large hand engulfing John’s bum and squeezing just right.

God, John was so hard that it hurt, and then Sherlock’s hands flew to the zip of John’s coat, yanking it down and ripping it free before moving through the scant inch of space it left behind. But God, now John could feel Sherlock’s stomach against his, the button of his jeans against his lower abdomen. He pushed up against Sherlock’s body, and Sherlock groaned, pressing his thigh between John’s legs, one hand massaging John’s scalp and the other on his hip.

John canted his hips, groaning at the pressure against his balls and the too-little friction on his cock. God, how he longed to get out of these damned jeans, get their naked bodies together, feel the delicious slide of Sherlock’s cock against his.

“Fuck,” John muttered before their mouths met again, kisses still rough and urgent but falling into rhythm so that they steered each other towards the same goal instead of jostling and bumping each other in a race to the finish. Their mouths and tongues dancing together.

John’s hands slid down Sherlock’s abdomen, fingertips grazing erect nipples, lamenting that they didn’t spend more time there, but they were in pursuit of a bigger goal. So instead, they slipped under Sherlock’s shirt, his abdominals jumping beneath them, and slid around to his back. John eased his fingers past the waistband of Sherlock’s pants and on down, the bare skin of Sherlock’s arse under his palms. He squeezed and kneaded, sliding his fingers on down to the crease between arse and thigh, and then in until his fingertips met where groin met inner thigh.

Sherlock had to stoop to allow John ingress, putting them both into awkward postures, but God was it worth it. Fuck, what a gorgeous, sexy man. Way out of John’s league, but he wanted John anyway. And oh God, if they weren’t careful, they’d end up getting off right there.

“Watson,” a voice called out, and John winced, breaking the kiss and escaping under Sherlock’s arm. His eyes darted around in search of his buddies.

“Watson,” shouted a different voice, and John breathed a sigh of relief. They didn’t know where he was.

John turned to Sherlock. “Sorry, I have to go. They can’t, um. They can’t find me with you.”

Sherlock stood tall. “I know.”

John reached out and traced a hand down Sherlock’s torso, hooking a fingertip in Sherlock’s waistband, licking his lips at the bulge in Sherlock’s jeans. “Some other time, yeah?”

Sherlock smirked, yanking John close for another kiss, biting hard at the corner of John’s lip and gripping his arse in both hands. Then, just as abruptly, he let go, making John stumble back.

“Some other time,” Sherlock said, nodding for John to walk away.

John wandered towards the voices, still in a bit of a daze, until he was spotted.

“Oi,” Porky shouted, and everyone turned their heads in John’s direction.

“Johnny boy,” Pike said, clapping John on the shoulder. “Looks like someone got some ballerina action.”

“Until someone interrupted us,” John replied, rejoining the pace of the group.

“Oh, and she liked it rough.” Pike pointed to John’s mouth.

John patted his lip where Sherlock bit him, and drew his hand away with a spot of blood. He stared at it as they walked.

“Watson, you dog,” Murray said. “Which one was it?”

John shrugged, wiping the blood on his jeans. “I don’t know the names of the characters.”

John let the rest of the conversation wash over him as they walked, preferring to preserve the fleeting moment in his memory forever. When they hit a tube station, John split off and rode home. Finally, as exhaustion seeped through his limbs, he unlocked the door to Harry’s flat, tip-toed past her bedroom door to the sofa in the sitting room.

He yawned, ready to collapse into sleep, but as he reached into his back pocket for his wallet, he came back with only an English National Ballet business card. He flipped it over.

On the back were the words, _If you want your wallet back, give me a call_.

John smiled, rushing to the phone in the kitchen, and dialing the number on the back of the card.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Entrechat Deux](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6600862) by [cwb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cwb/pseuds/cwb)




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